Us: A History
by dorothywrites
Summary: Closely follows the progression of Sherlock and John's relationship in the past as one tries to hold on to the other in the present. John/Sherlock. Rating for future chapters.
1. Prologue: A Promise

**Author's Note: **This story is loosely based on The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. Not directly in plot, but I did steal his idea of the actual notebook and the way this will cut between past and present.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>: A Promise

There will come a time when I... well. The time will come. And I must be completely selfish with you and ask one final favor-a favor you must promise to repeat for as long as I can stand it-and hope that you will comply even when I no longer remember asking it of you.

Don't let me forget this. If everything else slips away, I don't want to lose the way your hair smells in the morning, the way it feels to have your hand at the base of my spine, the different expressions on your face that only I know how to read. Don't let me lose the days we've spent at Baker Street, the nights, the _years_.

If there's ever been a promise I couldn't make you keep, it's this one. This impossible, improbable promise: _Don't let me forget us._


	2. Everything Changes

**One**: Everything Changes

Sherlock's eyes snap open and in the first three seconds of consciousness, he deduces several things without ever having to avert his gaze from the ceiling. First, he is thrilled to find himself alive and well and, quite remarkably, residing at 221B Baker Street, in spite of the rather lucid dream he'd been suffering through which had involved his own funeral, however cliche.

Second, he allows himself to tune his senses in to the flat and find John-whose funeral had also been included in that damned dream-and the smell of breakfast tea, toast, and warm butter mixed with strawberry jam flood him, letting him know that John is quite better than alright.

And in the third second of Sherlock's waking, he allows himself to run through the events of the previous day for anything he may have forgotten (unlikely) or overlooked (less likely), just in case. Of course, there is nothing new there, as he expected, so he sits up and lets his feet slip from the couch end to the floor for just a moment before standing up and stepping over the coffee table.

He straightens out his trousers and realizes that he is still wearing his suit from the day before. Curious.

"Good morning," John says from the kitchen. "Thank you for labeling the jam jars. It was... very courteous of you."

Sherlock smirks, sensing just a bit of hostility behind John's words. Well, what else was he meant to put his samples in? It wasn't every day (or every week, or even month) that one is presented with the opportunity to study a suicide victim's brain matter after a gunshot to the left temple. He'd had to hurry. Did John expect him to put brain matter in _plastic containers_? Surely not. Glass was much less breathable.

The doctor's thanks should have been entirely sincere.

John offers him a piece of toast as he enters the living room and heads for his laptop on the messy table. Sherlock is far too ready to begin the day to slow himself down by eating _toast_. He'd managed to tuck in just under two hours of sleep. He had at least 36 hours in him now.

He doesn't bother shaking his head at John. The other man was merely offering out of politeness. He knows Sherlock detests breakfast.

"I think I'll have a shower," he announces. His clothes from yesterday are making him feel entirely wrinkled. A scalding shower and a fresh suit will surely iron him out and ensure that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly aerodynamic for any of the day's activities. "Could you text Lestrade and tell him I've got a good feeling about the victim's brother's cat sitter? Tell him, expressly, that if the woman has a stainless steel cat box but a plastic scooper, arrest her."

Sherlock turns on his heel and heads for the bath, but he doesn't miss the sigh that escapes John's lips or the telltale sound of the toast hitting the plate as John's fingers neglect it in favor of his cell phone.

As he towels at his hair precisely eight minutes later, Sherlock feels an uncomfortable jab in his neck, as if someone is pressing a gun to his jugular. He swallows and presses his hand to the tightened muscle and feels the strain fading away beneath his fingers. In the mirror, his neck almost looks contorted with the way he has twisted away from the pain. He's been experiencing minor aches like this since that night at the swimming pool-the night everything in his life had seemed to change at once.

Split-second decisions had always been something of an area for Sherlock Holmes, but when the world's only consulting detective doesn't only have his own arse to look out for, things get a mite more complicated.

That complication's name is John Watson.

A welcome addition in his life, of course he was, albeit slightly begrudging in the beginning. They still have their qualms about each other, but in that moment at the pool, Sherlock had been sure that they were in complete agreement for the first time: If one of us goes, the other does, too. _This isn't one or the other._

It got complicated, Sherlock notes as he buttons his his suit jacket four minutes later, because he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to just be Sherlock again. The question had been eating at him for weeks. John was the one Lestrade called when he wanted to bring Sherlock in on a case. Mycroft frequently went through John as if the doctor was his secretary. Even Mrs. Hudson had taken to speaking to John first about any and all matters regarding the flat (except damage-John had explicitly told Mrs. Hudson that all property damage was Sherlock's fault, which, while generally accurate, was quite an unfair assumption).

And yet, for all the times Sherlock had dared to think of John Watson as something of an assistant, he was slowly finding that the other man was much more than that. Friend? Sherlock had never been a fan of the world. Perhaps more of a steady fixture with friendly attributes and a kind face.

More data. He needed more data. But thinking about a life without John wasn't something he liked to do. It wasn't an experiment he was willing to risk, which was something new altogether.

"Lestrade says you're barking mad," John says, not looking up from his laptop when Sherlock enters the room. "But he also sends his thanks."

"If he could string the facts together himself, he wouldn't feel so inadequate when I solved his cases, would he?" Sherlock sits down across from John and unfolds the morning paper with a _snap_. His eyes scan over the front page quickly-political scandals involving American presidential candidates who have less brain cells than the jam jar in his fridge, an ad that tells Sherlock that the male lead will die halfway through from the film poster alone, and pointless overgrown headlines all try to drag him in with useless blabber and catch words.

"Bored," he says, flipping over to the next page. Still nothing exciting. The obituaries will surely give him something to ponder. Suspicious deaths happening in London, maybe. There are always suspicious deaths somewhere. Then again, Lestrade hadn't immediately offered a new case, which means he thinks his department can handle whatever they've got on their plate. Oh, it'd be like Christmas if Sherlock would find something they missed. And in the _paper_, no less.

His eyes wander over the carefully written death notices, jumping from pictures of the deceased to their funeral arrangements. _Heart attack. Survived by three daughters and five grandchildren. Leaves behind his loving wife. Stroke. Send flowers to... Old age. Leaves behind sixteen cats: Buttons, Mr. Darcy, Frederick, Emille_... Bored.

"Mycroft is stopping by," John announces, still looking down at his computer screen. He takes a casual sip of his coffee as if he hasn't just announced that the devil is coming to call.

"Then we're going out." Sherlock stands and heads for the door, pulling his coat and scarf from where they're set over the back of the wooden chair at the table. Almost as if he can sense his brother attempting to flee the premises, Mycroft Holmes enters like an actor taking his cues. "Or perhaps not." The younger Holmes steps back into the flat, letting his shoulders drop almost undetectably and sagging into the armchair behind John at the table, listening as Mycroft walks up the stairs, entering the flat as though he owns it.

Which he might, considering Sherlock isn't actually paying any rent and Mrs. Hudson has never asked him for money. He has to assume Mycroft has some dirty dealings going on, he's just never asked.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson. Sherlock, good to see you." Mycroft inclines his head toward the chair across from his brother, clearly asking for permission that they both know he'll ignore either way. After a moment of humoring Sherlock's ignorance, he sits down and addresses his dark-haired brother. "I presume you're getting along well since the Moriarty incident."

_The Moriarty incident. _Sherlock wants to tell the man in front of him that it was quite a bit more than an _incident_, but he simply responds, "Quite well, thank you. I see your diet isn't faring quite so favorably. Three pounds up, yes?"

Mycroft leans back in the slightly threadbare armchair and regards Sherlock through a sheer mask that seems meant to imply that his brother isn't getting to him. John has finally managed to tear himself away from his computer-he was simply reading some article about how to deal with problematic flatmates, anyway. Useless and Sherlock plans to tell him later. Now, of course, the doctor is keen on observing the power play between the Holmes brothers.

"Sherlock, a man of your mindset surely knows I'm not here to talk about pastry recipes. I'm here about your very own well-being, which could be compromised in the near future by a certain James Moriarty."

This, of course, piques Sherlock's interest in the conversation, and he begins to notice things. His brother's posture has not changed, even though he has just delivered information that he knows is valuable to everyone in the room. There is a slight change in the light of his eyes, as if he knows there are going to be questions he cannot answer. Somewhere to his left, John has leaned forward in his seat, and his breath caught at the mention of the man's name. Sherlock, still completely capable of bodily functions, finds his teeth set on edge by the admission.

"If I recall correctly-and I _do_-your men told me he was dead. Guaranteed it, in fact."

"It was presumed at the time, though we now know wrongly so, because it was miracle enough that the two of you survived the blast-"

"Damn it, Mycroft, since when do your people presume _anything_?" Sherlock is standing now, though for the life of him he isn't sure when this happened. It is a curious thing, surely, for one's mind to move so quickly and to spin so out of control that bodily motion is needed in order to keep it from bouncing away entirely. Everything is telling him he souldn't have trusted Mycroft and his men to begin with. He should not have let himself be carted off to the hospital like some invalid. Minor flesh wounds were not reason enough-his mind had been perfectly adequate and, had he been permitted to stay behind, he was sure he would have been the one to realize that Moriarty was still among the living.

The signs, the signs. There had to be signs. Everything needed to piece together-but what were the signs?

Mycroft remains perfectly calm, as he has always been wont to do, and twirls the tip of his umbrella against the floorboards. "We have always operated in such a way that would give us sure results. For the last nine weeks, my men have been going through the wreckage expecting to find Moriarty stowed away beneath a pile of concrete. There was no reason to believe he had survived, Sherlock. There were no signs of life in the aftermath except the two of you, and even that should have been impossible." He pauses and looks between John and Sherlock before shrugging as if he hasn't just opened a whole new can of worms. "The gunmen were crushed and we operated on the believe that Moriarty had been, as well."

Sherlock can feel John's eyes on him and it wouldn't be so distracting if those eyes weren't so expectant. The doctor wanted, no, needed him to have a plan-one that would involve the two of them going off and finding Moriarty _right now_ and finishing this once and for all. Tearing the man limb from limb with their bare hands because he was stupid enough to cross Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes and think he'd get away with it. _Let's go now, we can do this right now_. He can almost hear John's thoughts. _Let's end this._

But that isn't how Moriarty works.

First, this has to get dirty.

Bloody.

It's going to be a mess, and Sherlock knows it.

And not even a _fun_ mess.

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a breath. This had all been fun when it had been a game that was about him. The thrill of it all had been an endorphin rush like no other-the countdown, the cases handed to him like gift-wrapped presents, the way he could always rely on some new puzzle...

But this is different entirely.

Sherlock stretches out his neck and cocks his head, feeling a thick tension rising in his throat like something burning.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

When he opens his eyes a moment later, it is entirely to meet John's. He will never admit that the other man's stare can make time slow down the way it does, but the way their eyes hold in that moment seems to stretch out with the mutual understanding that this isn't going to be like last time.

Nine weeks ago, it had all been about Moriarty's game with Sherlock.

Now, it is about the both of them; a game of cat and mouse that is far too personal.


	3. Silence Speaks Louder

**Two**: Silence Speaks Louder

John Watson stands in the shower and lets the water run over him. It's lukewarm and the neutrality of the sensation is almost uncomfortable. Not cold, not hot. Just... water.

Thankfully, John Watson is used to uncomfortable.

He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, tousling it to make sure it's soaked through before reaching for the shampoo. It's a sleepy sort of morning and he doesn't want to go to the surgery because things with Sarah have been strained lately, but that particular strain is better than the frustration he faces at 221B.

He hasn't had a moment's peace since Mycroft dropped the proverbial bomb on the flat two weeks prior. Sherlock doesn't want to let him out of his sight-afraid that John will get himself into trouble if he isn't under constant surveillance. While Mycroft has assured his younger brother that the doctor is in no immediate danger with _his_ men watching out for them, Sherlock seems unwavering in his belief that Mycroft's team is only good in emergency situations.

Which, to be honest, is kind of true. It's not like they were able to stop Moriarty from nearly blowing them up the first time.

But it's frustrating, to say the least. Even now, standing in the shower and lathering up his hair, he isn't alone. He knows Sherlock is on the other side of the door, staring at it with childlike fascination and listening for any signs of distress, as if Moriarty would be able to rig up a shower of bullets or poison the water supply.

Their dance has been perfected since that morning, of course. Sherlock-who has never been one for pretense-is quite alright with allowing John to go about his day as if he isn't constantly checking to make sure his friend is alive and well. And perhaps it's true that the concern goes both ways. John has never asked him to stop, and he thinks it's partly because he likes knowing that Sherlock is there.

Sherlock is gone from the other side of the door by the time John towels off and dresses for the day, and he is always quiet when he leaves his post at John's bedroom door when he's sure the doctor is asleep. Neither of them acknowledge the guardianship, though John isn't sure it's for his own comfort, or Sherlock's.

Maybe both.

Still frustrating. Even without spoken words, John feels the need to keep both of them comfortable, which means he can't indulge himself in a wank when he knows Sherlock is listening in. He could do it quietly, of course, but Sherlock would _know_. He always knows. He'd hear the water pattern shift in the shower or the rustling of John's bedclothes. And they wouldn't say anything, but John would know Sherlock knows and... well, that would be awkward.

Sure enough, when John returns to the sitting room ten minutes later, Sherlock is exactly where he left him, though he is still perusing the same page of the newspaper as when John excused himself to the shower.

He's about to say something about the paper's cover page being upside down when-

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><p>"<em>Bored.<em>"

His eyes snap up from the leather-bound journal in his lap and he finds that he can't breathe. The intonation in the word seemed to hint at an inside joke, but that's just not possible. It's been so long since either of them have uttered that word, so long since there has been any glimpse of...

"Sorry?" he enquires, hands almost shaking as he moves the navy ribbon to mark his place in the book.

"Was that rude? I'm sorry." He worries his bottom lip for the briefest of moments. "I'm... bored," his partner replies. "How long is it until the story gets interesting?"

"In...teresting? Interesting how?"

"John is in love with Sherlock. It seems like neither of them know it. When do they figure it out?"

"Would you like me to skip to that part?" Normally, he wouldn't indulge such requests. He'd make him wait. But maybe today is the day. He has already brought up two memories from their past: The boredom-which wouldn't be significant to anyone but them-and the fact that neither of them realized their feelings. It was usually the job of the journal-of his voice reading out words written hastily on the page-to bring his lover back to him in fleeting moments. Today it seems to be the work of something else.

He would give into it even if these short bursts were his only reward.

"It's six weeks later, then. After Moriarty..." He trails off, his fingers carefully turning the pages. "John and Sherlock are at Baker Street."

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><p>It's strange how the constant vigilance has brought them to a new level of familiarity with each other. Moriarty twice reprised his role as Sherlock's biggest fan and most dangerous nemesis, but now that he was through, how could they possibly return to normal?<p>

Yet they're trying, wordlessly.

John doesn't ask Sherlock if he wants tea, he just readies it with nervous hands, reaching into the cupboard and finding the sugar bowl with practiced certainty. The scorpion is long gone, though he still isn't sure if that's because it got loose and is somewhere in a dark corner waiting to sting John or because Sherlock disposed of it properly. He's afraid to ask.

He chuckles under his breath. After everything they've been through, that's the thing he's presently fearing. A confrontation about a bloody _scorpion_.

What has life come to?

The kettle whines on the stove and John sets his and Sherlock's mugs on the counter. It seems best to try to go back to life before five days ago-before they were taken, separately. Sherlock has made no indication that he wants to talk about it, and even though John is sure he'd fare much better if they could just _discuss_ the kidnapping and subsequent mental anguish (that's the only way he can think to describe it, but he can't say for sure what Sherlock went through), their lives would be better for it.

_Maybe his hands would stop shaking._

There's still a bit of water in the bottom of the kettle and it swishes about as he sets it back home on the stove. His fingers wrap around the striped handle of his mug and a fresh batch of memories are triggered-his striped jumper being torn from his body, blood being drawn entirely for the purpose of spreading it across the black and white lines. All of it to antagonize Sherlock.

__"He believes us. Believes you're dead, John. And what a pity. He'll never know you could've been saved."_ Moriarty's voice echoes in the seemingly empty space between John's ears, all entertained, sing-song tenor with a deadly catch beneath._

Before he can register any passage of time, Sherlock's hand is wrapped around his; long fingers gently prying the handle away and setting the hot mug down before John realizes he's burned himself from the shaking.

He closes his eyes.

_"I'll burn you, John Watson. Just like I promised." Moriarty leans in close, lowers his voice: "I'm a man of my word."_

Sherlock doesn't say a word, just holds on to John's hands, tenderly touching the sensitive skin that is flushed red from the splashed tea. He's just deducing the extent of the wound, curiously applying pressure so he can ensure that it's not too serious. Sherlock Holmes is being _careful_.

John knows this is a step for Sherlock. Maybe even a leap. It's so... human. But he can't even acknowledge the occasion because everything keeps playing back behind his open eyes and he can't ignore the burning, the smell of smoke and the thickness of fire in his lungs.

It's a strange sensation. He can see Sherlock before him, he knows he's safe at Baker Street. There's no immediate danger, but he's being suffocated by the memories. He doesn't even have to use his vast medical knowledge to know that this is post-traumatic stress disorder at its finest, yet he can't exactly break himself away from it just because he has a diagnosis.

"John, look at me."

Sherlock's voice is firm, but not forceful. John manages to tear his eyes away from the unfocused stare he'd caught himself in and he looks up at Sherlock, meeting the other man's clear eyes and holding his gaze. It's hard to fight back the memories that this brings to the surface. He remembers Sherlock nearly shoving Mycroft's minion to the ground in his effort to make sure that John is conscious-the way his eyes had been wild with worry and the hint of something else behind blatant fear. His face had been stained with smoke and John thinks about how he hadn't cared that the warehouse was on fire, just that Sherlock was alive and that they were both going to be okay.

At the time, alive and okay was all he'd wanted.

They hold each other's eyes for another moment, just breathing as John tries to ground himself at 221B Baker Street, here and now. He swallows and licks his lips as he comes back into reality more fully, realizing just how close Sherlock is standing to him; the reality of his injured hand cradled in Sherlock's cool, slender ones.

Sherlock doesn't say a word, and John expects the other man to be bored of this situation at any moment. Even though he doesn't want to think that Sherlock is simply using this opportunity to observe a man experiencing PTSD, he can't help but think that Sherlock is storing away every bit of this for future reference.

As expected, Sherlock drops his hands and turns to walk out of the kitchen, leaving behind John and the mugs of fresh (albeit slightly spilled) tea. John is about to turn back to the mess caused by his unaddressed shaking when Sherlock reappears in the doorway, observing him quietly.

_He wants me to follow him_, John realizes. He flexes his burned hand and walks toward him, slowly, unsure of where this unspoken invitation will lead.

When Sherlock pushes open his bedroom door a moment later, he stops and waits for John to enter first, and there is the briefest flash of uncertainty mixed with a fear of rejection that crosses over Sherlock's face. Anyone else would have missed it, but John knows by now that any glimpse of emotion to pass those angular features will be instantaneous. Thus, he pays very, very close attention to Sherlock Holmes.

Right now, he has no idea where this is going, and he isn't even quite certain of his own feelings on the matter, but he isn't going to let Sherlock's invitation go unaccepted. He steps through the threshold and into the dark room.

It's very rare that John Watson pays a visit to this particular room of their flat. Sherlock's room is-and will likely always be-something of a mystery to him. For the first several months of their cohabitation, the doctor had wondered if Sherlock even had a bed, or if he simply powered himself down wherever he was at the time that his body finally gave way to the human need for rest. After he realized that Sherlock really _did_ sleep, he'd entered the room once to wake Sherlock when Lestrade showed up on one of those rare, sleepy occasions.

Sherlock's room is always dark. There is no light bulb installed. Sherlock's logic is that if he's in there to sleep-which is primarily what he uses the room for, aside from storage of old files-he doesn't need the light, so why bother? It's lit enough by the streetlamps outside and the faint lighting in the flat itself, so John can see the outlines of all the clutter and mess strewn about the room. Sherlock's dresser is covered in papers and file folders, as is nearly every other surface in the room except the bed.

He turns back to Sherlock, who has now closed the door, eliminating much of the light in the room with a soft click. Without a word, Sherlock moves past him to the left side of the bed and stands there for a long moment, silently watching John with a questioning, curious sort of expression that tells John that this _isn't_ Sherlock's area.

John wants to ask a myriad of questions, but he finds that he's too busy choking on his own rapid heartbeat, though he can't tell if it's from the uncertain anticipation growing in his chest or because he's just had a near-breakdown in their kitchen. Either way, he bites back his words in favor of Sherlock's (and perhaps his own) comfort and moves to the right side of the bed.

They hold each other's eyes in the dark and turn down the blankets at the same time. It's not late enough to go to bed-it's only half nine-and neither of them are in their night clothes. Sherlock is still wearing a charcoal grey suit over a light blue dress shirt, and John is wearing a burgundy jumper and a pair of old jeans. But it seems natural to simply toe off their shoes-Sherlock's expensive dress shoes and John's ratty sneakers-and kick them aside before crawling into the bed.

He finds that another thing that seems natural-and perhaps this is due entirely to the flood of memories and the desperate fear he'd experienced only minutes ago-is that he can get into the bed with his back to Sherlock and not worry that the other man will simply lay on his back and stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. No, John fully expects Sherlock's arms to wrap around him, and as the bed dips behind him, needs John didn't even know he had are appeased.

Sherlock's long body presses against John's as his arms snake around John, pulling him closer. His fingers thread together just above John's heart and John lets his hands trail up Sherlock's arms for just a moment before taking hold of his wrists, holding him in place.

Perhaps for the first time since Mycroft turned up two months ago, John feels safe; at peace. Even so, his heart races below Sherlock's hands. This is uncharted, dangerous territory that they are willingly occupying. Behind him, through the layers of Sherlock's suit and skin, John can feel Sherlock's heart mimicking his own caged hummingbird.

The other man presses his forehead against the back of John's head and his breath ghosts across the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine and making his hair stand on edge as though it just wants to get closer to Sherlock. It seems like they stay like this for hours, just laying and holding each other; relishing in the safety of the darkened room, the warmth of the sort of company they never knew they could be to one another.

As they each start to drift into what is bound to be the best night of sleep they've had in ages, John feels a warm, tentative brush of lips against the small bump where his shoulders meet his neck. It's too apprehensive and too chaste to be accidental, and he doesn't want it to go unacknowledged, so he squeezes Sherlock's hands and leans back against him, accepting.

A quiet sigh passes over the same skin as Sherlock's lips and his arms tighten reflexively, as if Sherlock has decided that now that he knows John is willing, he is never going to let him go again.

When sleep silently takes him a few moments later, John can't help thinking he'd be alright with being held captive by Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his life.


	4. And I Love You?

If he could keep everything the same for the rest of his life, Sherlock Holmes believes he would be perfectly content. He'd keep 221B Baker Street until the day he died; surely Mrs. Hudson would leave it to him in her will. What use would it be to her in death? And he'd keep working cases for Lestrade, because where else would Lestrade be? And John. He'd keep John until one of them stopped breathing.

That is, if everything goes to plan and nothing changes.

Sherlock has always been one for leaving things be when they work. He's keen on fixing things that are broken and making things _better_, but why tinker with something if it's already perfect? And that's how he'd describe the situation he finds himself in with John. The doctor's hands don't shake anymore, Sherlock is getting at least two hours of sleep each night, and they're both comfortable, which is a new feeling for the consulting detective.

Maybe that's why he ensures he's awake and out of bed-working, thinking, experimenting-long before John wakes up each morning. They've been sharing a bed for four nights now, but it hasn't evolved and they haven't spoken about it, which is exactly how Sherlock prefers it.

Now that they have a routine, neither of them seem to feel the apprehension and hesitancy that had been present that first night. The evening is usually initiated by John with a glance across the room, and that's all it takes for Sherlock to know that it is time to go to sleep. And he does, actually: he sleeps.

And yes, his brain works better with three or four hours powered down each night, but then he's more sluggish in the morning because he actually has to fight himself out of the bed. It takes at _least_ six minutes to force his arms away from John, and even longer to roll away from him and finally swing his legs over the side. It's not because John is holding onto him in a vice (that has only happened twice, and it takes about nine minutes on those mornings), but because _he_ doesn't want to let go.

He isn't sure if he's ever experienced this feeling before, but he'd be hard-pressed to find a way to describe it that doesn't include the word "content."

It's also... mildly alarming.

Sherlock spends the morning doting over a blood spot on the kitchen counter. It's neither his nor John's-entirely likely that it's the blood of one of John's kidnappers, since he was sure the doctor had fought back. Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone willingly, as he tended to do in situations like that. They had known Moriarty was coming. He'd practically been planning on it, so why not entertain the psychopath for a bit?

If you asked him, Sherlock wouldn't have told you that the main reason he had gone was because he dared to hope (something he knew better than) that the kidnappers would ignore the fact that they'd missed half their target. Taking Sherlock in the street, alone, was better than taking both of them from home. At least, that's what Sherlock had thought at the time.

He'd thought John might be safe.

He scrubs at the spot with a wet rag until there isn't a single trace of red. Better to clean away any other evidence of those days from their lives. Most artifacts from their two days in captivity (hard to believe it was less than a week ago) had, of course, burned to the ground with the London warehouse where John had been held. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been across town, being hand-fed the information and carefully crafted proof that John had been murdered at Moriarty's hand.

It had been Mycroft-and Sherlock would certainly never admit _this_ out loud-who had been responsible for pinpointing John's location and leading Sherlock to the burning warehouse.

Even now, Sherlock has a hard time believing that John is alive and well, sleeping mere yards away wrapped in blankets that smell equally of the pair of them.

_I'll never give up on you again,_ Sherlock thinks as he tosses the rag into the sink.

Until the moment that he had believed John to be dead, Sherlock had never felt that there was more to life than his work. Back when Moriarty had first introduced himself to their lives-and at the same time nearly taken John from him for the first time-Sherlock had been sure that the tightness in his chest had been something due to the uncommon feeling of shock. But the second time-when Sherlock had seen the blood on the jumper, inspected it for any signs of tampering, and found none-he knew the sensation wasn't due to shock.

Sherlock can still feel it when he remembers the way Moriarty had informed him of his friend's demise. _"We've taken every care to ensure he was quite _warm_ as he died. Wouldn't want our dear John to get hypothermia."_

He'd been able to smell it on Moriarty, the scent of smoke that can only come from a thick, fresh fire. He can still smell it now, but he prefers to push it to the back of his mind.

John is safe.

But this feeling isn't.

Sherlock opens the refrigerator. No milk, but there is an egg carton filled with two dozen toes that Sherlock has been trying to find a use for. They'd been a gift from Molly, who had clearly figured out that the way to his heart was literally through body parts. Unfortunately for her, Sherlock's heart is currently (and, if he's honest, which he wouldn't be if you asked, had been for quite some time) indebted to the doctor sleeping soundly in the next room.

How does one make that clear? He's never been one for talking about feelings (or talking about anything much more than the work, for that matter), and he doesn't want anything to change from the way it is now. It's comfortable now. Adding speculation about feelings can only make things more complicated than Sherlock wants-or is even prepared-to deal with.

But he knows John ended things with Sarah with the sort of finality that can only mean he feels the same way. Of course, John didn't mention this after he did it, but Sherlock knows. He always knows. John is too kind of a human being to keep any hurt hidden. Two nights after they'd slept together (in the sleeping sense, mind you), John had returned from work looking as though he'd just kicked a puppy. Knowing that John wasn't the type to kick puppies (much more Anderson's area), Sherlock could only assume that his friend had had an uncomfortable conversation with someone and it hadn't gone how he'd hoped.

Thus, Sherlock decided he doesn't want to say a word to John, because God knows any conversation Sherlock Holmes could possibly have about feelings would never work out the way either party wants it to.

So he doesn't say anything.

Three more days go by and their arrangement goes unspoken. Sherlock wakes in the morning, disentangles himself from John with aching slowness, and they go about their days. There are no lingering touches, no lustful glances over the morning paper, no indication that either of them want to make a single change to their current situation.

Until Sherlock realizes he does.

It's Thursday morning, just an hour or so before the sun will start to peek through the window of his bedroom. On previous mornings, he's awoken to find himself tangled with John and the majority of his limbs numb and slightly tingly from lack of proper blood circulation. This morning, he wakes to find John's head resting on his chest, rising up and down as he breathes. John's left hand has taken advantage of Sherlock's tee-shirt riding up a few inches and his warm fingers are practically burning an imprint on Sherlock's hip.

He's overcome with the terrible urge to roll John over and kiss him into the mattress. He wants to know where else John's hands can ignite fire under his skin. He wants. That's certainly new and noteworthy.

He documents the feeling and closes his eyes, focusing entirely on the way it feels to have John's chest moving against his side with each breath; the way John's left leg is tossed over his own.

It won't hurt anything if he goes back to sleep.

"I think I'm supposed to go to sleep," he says, rubbing one of his laugh-line wrinkled eyes with a closed fist. He's looked almost childlike for nearly an hour now, as if he's trying to keep himself awake for just a little while longer.

"You generally take a short nap around now, yes," his friend responds, tucking the ribbon into the journal. "We can pick up where we left off when you wake."

"Will you jump ahead again?"

"I don't think I should."

"Why not?"

"Because what happens next is probably the last thing you'd expect."

"So Sherlock is going to bring home roses and chocolates?" he jokes, leaning back against the pillows on his bed. His eyes are already drifting, heavy lids seeming weighed down by greying lashes. He breathes through his nose in sleep, the smallest smile lingering on his lips, as if he's going off into dreams where he can remember his former life.

"Not quite." Closing the book, he straightens out his legs, stretching, and remembers a time when he could have crawled into bed and been warmly accepted into willing arms under the covers. Now, he can only watch his lover sleep, hoping that when he wakes up, just a bit of him will have come back.

_Do I love John Watson?_ Sherlock toys with the question in his mind whenever he gets too bored. Sometimes he even lets those five words slip into his analysis while working on a case. _Sixteen dead cockroaches, an angry brother due to owed money but also because his brother-in-law slept with his wife last Christmas, an inch and a half of blood in the bathtub and do I love John Watson?_

It's not something he's taking lightly. He doesn't know the answer, and he most certainly isn't going to rush into this the way he'd rush into an alleyway after the Golem. This is more dangerous. He's comfortable; can't risk comfort; never had it before, may never find it again. Death, dismemberment, bruises and internal bleeding are all perfectly acceptable risks, but certainly not comfort.

It all stems back to the morning he let himself fall back asleep. Three days ago. Three days pondering five words, sometimes three: A simple set of letters arranging themselves in something of a question. _I love you?_ ringing in his ears every time he gets into bed, every time he wakes up with his arms full of John Watson.

Most inconvenient.

But that one morning-the only time he had allowed it to happen thus far-stands out. The way John had been (pleasantly?) surprised to find that the bed was still occupied. Sherlock had almost given in to the urge to stay in bed (forever) and just hold on to John as if he would float away into the dreaded solar system if he was forced to let him go.

Ask Sherlock Holmes what he hates above all else and he will most likely (certainly) tell you that he hates not knowing. It is his exact and precise line of work to know what is going on at all times; to know what everyone else around him is thinking, since odds are their brains are too small and under utilized to actually know in the first place. Yet he can't bring himself to look at John and deduce the answers to his own questions, because what if John doesn't feel the same way? It's torturous trying to decide whether he'd like to know and be disappointed or not know and be driven made with the desire to know.

Second in line on the list of Things Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Like is certainly having to hold back from saying things. He's never been good at keeping his mouth shut (just ask Mycroft, who blames his weight issues and oral fixation on Sherlock's constant verbal abuse as a child), and having to wait until he knows exactly where his (and John's) feelings are on that blurred line between friendship and something more feels entirely too juvenile for Sherlock.

Wait, reorder that list. Sherlock is sure it goes (1) Anderson, (2) Not Knowing, and (3) Biting His Tongue.

Accuracy is important, after all.

So Sherlock realizes he has to make some sort of declaration, but those-romantic or otherwise-have never exactly been his area. Tell him he needs to get two dozen fingers to match the toes in the fridge and he'll be perfectly adept with charming Molly into donating to his cause, but actually making his intentions clear with John is another story entirely.

And so it comes about that as he is heading home from a solitary walk about London, he realizes it. The biggest step he can take in showing John how he feels-or at least, how he thinks he feels right now, which is something unrecognizable but also what he defines as "the nagging in my chest that makes it hard to concentrate when you're around because I swear I can feel you breathing and do I love you?"

When he opens the door, John is two steps from the bottom of the stairs, pulling his coat on. His keys are in one hand, his wallet is in the other, and Sherlock has caught him with the ghost of a sigh on his lips. His friend stops and holds the railing with one hand before curiously descending the last two steps, eyeing Sherlock's unspoken offering with an almost childlike curiosity.

He licks his lips. "You, uh. You... got milk."

Sherlock acknowledges this brilliant deduction with a slow, deliberate blink of his eyes and the faintest nod of his head. _I picked up the milk and I love you? I thought you might want tea before bed and I love you?_

Always a question. Why is it always a question?

But then John's hands are taking the milk away from him and setting it on the small table Mrs. Hudson keeps in the entryway. Sherlock is about to ask what he's doing when John's hands cup his face and draw him down quickly, pausing just barely long enough for both of them to position their heads so their noses don't smash together. And John's lips are against his, but not for very long, because as soon as they touch, the both of them gasp quietly against the other, parting for the shortest breath before diving back in.

All he can think of is the warmth of the lips below his own, how pliant they are and how he's curious to see how they flush and swell as the kiss progresses. And also how he needs to get John a bit of lip balm, but he's not going to complain about that just now.

Sherlock has never kissed anyone as surely as he kisses John. Their mouths fit together and the height difference isn't terrible and John's hands are careful and seem to know exactly what amount of pressure to apply to Sherlock's hip and the back of his neck in order to be the one controlling the kiss. Sherlock is inclined to run his tongue along John's bottom lip, but something inside him tells him that that's just a bit too much for a first kiss-and considering they're still practically in the doorway to 221B Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson could come out at any moment, perhaps it's best to save that for later.

_Later._

John draws away from him a moment later and Sherlock nearly follows that mouth backwards. He wants to kiss him again-practice makes perfect and he's always been one for perfecting studies-but it's probably best if they go upstairs.

But as John takes the milk in one hand and Sherlock's hand in the other, the world's only consulting detective realizes it's not a question anymore.

_You kissed me. Everything changed. I hate change. Never change. You taste like cinnamon toothpaste and bergamot, and I love you._


End file.
